Tasos Livaditis – Poems, Volume II

Long Listed for the 2023 Griffin Poetry Awards

SYMPHONY II (Excerpt)

Pointless wandering in the streets, foggy lights

          that distort the faces

trying among the crowd to steal a little of the others’

          indifference

undressing all the women as if to discover a rose

from her; believing in yourself, like a child who

hides behind the humble chair with the hole

and fools himself that he’s not seen.

My hands are two heavy useless animals since

            they don’t hug you

I hate my eyes that don’t reflect your smile anymore

I’d like to pound the streets with my fists, the busses,

trolleys which once led us to our happiness and

to create a deserted city because of your unbearable

            absence.

Foggy, sleepy windows of the earthly taverns

where drunkenness, craziness, misfortune and

a piece of the sky’s starlit indifference are reflected.

And always that strange sense of the haunted deserter

who, between the death he escaped and the death

that waits for him,

suddenly, teary, feels the futility of all triumphs

and the resignation of its denial.

No, not from the enemy, comrade, tonight protect

               yourself from me.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763564

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume IV

ORESTES (Excerpt)

And she insists to mix honey and water for the dead

who don’t feel thirsty anymore nor hungry, nor do they

have a mouth; dead who don’t dream of restitutions or

revenge. She always evokes her unmistaken (which one?)

perhaps to avoid the responsibility of her decision and

choice, when the teeth of the dead, naked, scattered on

the soil, become the white seeds in an immense, black

plain that will sprout the only true, invisible, snow white

trees that will phosphoresce in the moonlight to the end

of times.

Ah, how she can deal with such words out of her mouth,

words taken out of, yes, old chests (like those decorated

with big nails), words pulled up from amid mother’s

old hats, which she doesn’t wear anymore. You saw her

in the garden this afternoon? — how nice she still is —

she hasn’t aged at all, perhaps because she looks after

time and acts accordingly — I mean she renews herself

knowing the youth she loses and perhaps this way she

reacquires it.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CGX139M6

Neo-Hellene Poets, an Anthology of Modern Greek Poetry

Poem by Miltos Sachtouris

THE NEGLECTED

III

The neglected one extends her white hand

as she takes a colourful piece of glass and sings

“I call you not in my dream

but among these colourful fragments of broken glass

but you always leave

now, yes, your face truly scares me

and as I join these pieces of glass

I can’t see you whole

sometimes I put together only your head

among all the other wild heads

                                                 which alienate me

other times I put together your beloved body

among a thousand other mutilated bodies

other times just your blessed hand

among the thousands of other extended hands

which torment my legs under my dresses

they tie my eyes with their black kerchiefs

they order me to walk without turning my head

                                                                    back

to see your eyes as they shatter.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763513

Ithaca Series, Poem # 614

Painting by Tineke Storteboom

EARTH

Our virgin mother

black of face

We hurt her to bury our dead

she bore and formed from clay

Six feet under earth

is enough

to return things entrusted to her family

and pile earth

on earth.

Emad Fouad, Egypt (1974)

ΓΗ

Μητέρα μας παρθένα γη

πρόσωπο μαύρο που

σε σκάβουμε και θάψουμε νεκρούς

που από λάσπη εσχημάτισες

δυο μέτρα στο χώμα σου βαθειά

αρκούν

να της γυρίσουμε αυτά που ωφείλουμε

χώμα πάνω στο χώμα.

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//Translated by Manolis Aligizakis

Ithaca Series, Poem # 607

  Painting by Tineke Storteboom

almost dead

The feet intertwined in the corpses of the words
I crawled up
Like a beam of light on ruins

The belly gliding on the saliva of languages without echo
I bathed
Like a memory in the black of my inkpot

My ears resonating with the whispering of the feathers
that shivered by the wind,
like blank sheets of paper,
or as graveclothes…

ΣΧΕΔΟΝ ΝΕΚΡΟΣ

Τα πόδια μπερδεύονται στα πτώματα λέξεων

έρπομαι

δέσμη φωτός στα ερείπια

κοιλιά γλυστρά στο σάλιο γλωσσών δίχως ηχώ

κολυμπώ

μνήμη στο μαύρο μελανοδοχείο μου

τ’ αυτιά μου αφομοιώνονται με τον ψύθιρο φτερών

που τρέμουν στον αγέρα

μαύρες σελίδες χαρτιού

η σαν σάβανα.

Μετάφραση Μανώλη Αλυγιζάκη//Translation by Manolis Aligizakis

Amina Mekahli, Algeria

Unpublished poem. July 2019.

Translation Germain Droogenbroodt

Wheat Ears – Selected Poems

Moments

 

 

Just yesterday when I saw her angelic form

through the open window

 

summer heat conspired

with her bedroom’s

privacy, loneliness

 

awestruck by her beauty

I couldn’t yet understand

 

until later in life I learned

the meaning of moaning

 

when years had turned

into brown dry leaves

blown by the wind onto

the sidewalk of life

 

https://www.lulu.com/account/projects/y26q9n?page=1&pageSize=10

  

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BKHW4B4S

Yannis Ritsos – Poems, Volume I

Mortality

Don’t talk anymore There is no continuance You search

the shapes the colors You pretend to choose

Motorcycles are noisy Windowpanes break Paul

believed in people They killed him A lot gets forgotten

a lot remains half-done Solemn women

wash the glass tubes they leave them in the sun

children sleep in their clothes at night The compass

has been left on the table for years I’ll go out – he said –

I’ll buy a watermelon as big as the whole world

I’ll slice it in two to stare at its dark red color

firmly nailed with black nails And I shall eat it

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763076

Υπεράνθρωπος

Απαντοχή

     Ναι, μάταια όλα πια ήταν, το ξέραμε κι όλα τα νέα που

λάβαμε με λεπτομέρειες κι απαίσιο τρόμο περιγράψανε

των φίλων κατορθώματα και άθλους εχθρών

απλούστατα ασήμαντους κι εμείς δώσαμε προσοχή

στου σπίνου το τραγούδι που ήταν ακόμα ικανός

να τραγουδήσει και στου λιβαδιού την αστέρευτη πρασινάδα

σαν τη καταστροφή εκείνη των χρωμάτων της παιδικής μας

ηλικίας που μέσα στο νου και στις καρδιές κοιμόταν ενώ

κοιτάζαμε τα ερειπωμένα σπίτια σαν να `τανε ολόλαμπρα

αστέρια.

     Tότε, κι εμείς, πετάξαμε τις πιστωτικές μας κάρτες

κι ελεύθεροι από ενοχή τη γη επερπατήσαμε που νυχτωμένη

όπως ήτανε μας μέλλονταν να διασχίσουμε.

Titos Patrikios – Selected Poems

EVES

No one recognizes me in the dispersing crowd:

the accountant, the postman, bands of blind people,

no one sees that my hands, in the pocket of the coat,

hold a worn out caress.

The store owners lower the rollers

the guy next to me combs his hair

in front of the display window and

this night digs pits for the dead.

The paths of the body are so long that

you can’t refuse the warmth of a cinema;

the fertilizer of kisses isn’t enough

for the moon of your enamoured self

that springs out of the mirror.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08L1TJNNF

Απαιτήθηκαν Εξηγήσεις